Yesterday, for almost an hour, he raved about Tetouan. He has this dream that he’ll live there someday, even buy ahouse. The Spanish side of the city is what he likes: its whitecolor, its invigorating air, its separate status in Moroccanhistory ... everything ... he enjoyed everything about it.

Abdelkébir speaking! Now that’s a real miracle!

When did he find time to fall in love? And who is he in love with?

Simple solution, I’ve just got to ask him: “Abdelkébir, my dear brother, are you in love?” But where would I findthe courage for such a confrontation? What do I do nowthat I’m assailed by doubts, now that I’m furious, trulyjealous? And what about Tangiers? What can I do aboutTangiers?

At the moment we’re in the kasbah. Were drinking black tea in tea bags, Lipton. I don’t recognize Abdelkébir anymore.I mean like this, a man beyond shame and, since he returnedfrom Tetouan, a man in love with this tea that I find insipid.He just said so. Said so again. He likes it like this. It’s insane.He finds every way he can to talk about Tetouan. You can’tshut him up. Real talkative.

He is happy. His face is radiant. His appearance is different, relaxed, not serious, cheerful.

From the kasbah, there is an extraordinary panoramic view of Tangiers, the port, the strait, the Mediterranean, theOcean. The horizon. The future. The happiness life holds.The promises. Let’s go for it! Really?

From what I can see, Mustapha doesn’t notice a thing. Everything goes right over his head. He’s still too young tograsp the complexity of things that happen around us. He’sout of it, good for him.

Everywhere on Abdelkébir’s body, I detect signs of happiness. Of love.

He’s changed his cologne. The one he’s using now is fruity. I’m sure he associates it with someone.

Hypocrite, do I dare ask him: “You smell good, Abdelkébir. New cologne? Something you bought in Tetouan?”

I ask him. He looks at me, incredulous. Then he looks away without answering, which means he did give me ananswer but without saying a word.

My heart is broken.

Tangiers is indifferent to my situation, to my unhappiness. I no longer know if I should love this city or hate it ... whether Tangiers is the start of some great passion or the startof some mutual hatred?